


Here, though the Disc explode these two survive

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Everything ends happily and dare I say it in a fairytale manner, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Many apologies for the completely broken footnotes; i can't for the life of me figure them out, Vampire!Vetinari, Warning for Very indepth description of a panic attack, but only recently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 07:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14563581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: Vetinari decides to become a vampire for the good of the city (suspend your disbelief, this is another trouser-leg of time). Drumknott gets the wrong end of the stick (being sarcasm incarnate with an anxiety disorder is Tricky).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really... didn’t mean to hurt Drumknott as much as I did. I’m planning on giving him a Really Nice Desk in a future fic, if I ever write it, so I hope he will forgive me.  
> Disclaimer: These are of course not my characters, I’m simply giving them something new to think about~ Chapter headings and title bastardised from Vincent Starrett’s poem 221B.  
> Disclaimer II: At time of (beginning) writing I had read a grand total of four Discworld novels and watched two films, so I apologise if the characterisation (not to mention the canon re: vampires, of which I know only that which is evidenced in The Fifth Elephant) leaves something to be desired; I fell so totally head over heels with Vetinari that I rather had to write something...

_Here dwell together two men of note_

_Who never lived and so can never die._

 

Four o’clock began over at the Teacher’s Guild. Drumknott sighed lightly and set down his pen. The trade reports from Sto Lat were... not the most riveting work to which he had been exposed. And the writer was rather inclined towards verbosity– if he had to look at the word “cabbage” one more time... well, suffice to say he would need a _very_ strong cup of tea indeed.

He arranged the various papers from the afternoon in date and time order, as they should be, emerging from behind his desk and the veritable mountains of paperwork thereon to hand them to the Patrician. The small but genuine smile he received in thanks made his erstwhile contemplation of cabbage-related misdeeds worthwhile; ever since they had reached their understanding some years prior, he felt more and more that he could probably subsist very well on Vetinari’s approval alone.

Not that he did not enjoy his job; he had managed perfectly adequately for a good ten years without relationship-related perks – and yes, the approval had still been _present_ , but it had a different _quality_ to it now, and well – the life of Ankh Morpork is _interesting_ , damn it, and absolutely _not_ in _any_ way because of its ruler. Of course.

Vetinari made no move to examine the papers, however, setting them neatly to one side and scrutinising Drumknott through long, steepled fingers, rather like an expectant cat. Whether the cat _wanted_ food or _saw_ food was, however, up for debate (and Drumknott had played the role both of the proverbial food and the acquirer thereof in the past[1] ). Drumknott quelled the sudden feeling of unease and calmly regarded Vetinari back. There was little point in demonstrating disquietude in front of the Patrician; he knew already of a person’s feelings, displaying them only exposed an unthinkable lack of self-control.

“Please sit down, Rufus.” The Patrician gestured to the chair in front of his desk, one which Drumknott had always rather thought of as the Interrogation Chair. (The fact that the chair in question was now facing its 187th incarnation was of no concern; a name was a name.)

Drumknott paused briefly. “I-” He hurriedly planted himself on the edge of the offending object, confusion shadowing his face, before continuing, “How may I be of service, my lord?”

Vetinari paused before speaking, which Drumknott knew (though judicious and prolonged observation) to be a demonstration of the care with which he spoke only to those privileged few whose opinion he valued enough to ensure no tiresome misconstructions occurred. Drumknott straightened up almost imperceptibly, warring feelings of pride and concern emerging, as his heart tried valiantly to throw itself out of his ribcage in recognition of the other man’s regard, and his stomach attempted to make the short journey to the floor in acknowledgement of the fact that whatever came next was Of Import. _Ignore it, pay attention_.

“It may have escaped your notice, Rufus, that I am, as the saying goes, getting no younger. The next assassination attempt may well be my last.”

There was little point in refuting this. Protestation would merely have evidenced weakness of character. The Patrician continued.

“Obvious though it may seem, I have thus taken precautions to safeguard against this occurrence, for the good of Ankh-Morpork and its numerous petty squabbles – which, you will agree, have seen a distinct decline over the past decade, although the constant obsession regarding _kings-_ ” (he didn’t quite sneer, being far too well-bred, but there was a certain _emphasis_ ) “-remains a constant reminder of the ease with which the great city could so easily sink back to the-” he almost sighed, “- _simpler_ times of yore.”

Honestly Drumknott was surprised such precautions were not already in place (in fact, offhand he could think of at least six provisions which he would previously have considered such), though he supposed that remaining several steps ahead of aspiring assassins (with a small ‘a’, as he could hardly deign to give them the capitalised moniker) required constant innovation. And really, perhaps Vetinari found it enjoyable. Certainly a man like that would stagnate in a routine existence.

“Rufus...” there was a small pause, which would have given Drumknott cause for concern had it not become clear that the information to be imparted was work-related, and not personal; it was unlike Vetinari to take _such_ incredible care with his words around someone who understood him so well and accepted him so totally. The Patrician blinked, then seemed to make a decision, for his next words were to the point. Balancing delicately on the point with a stiletto heel, in fact. Liable to topple at the slightest impetus. Dangerous.

“I am now a vampire.”

Drumknott blinked. Presently, he resisted the urge to resort to hysteria. Valiantly, and with considerable success. It was not a joke, he knew that. Vetinari’s humour tended more to Irony and Pointed Barbs, not... Silvery and Pointed... Teeth. Oh gods. He could practically _feel_ the blood drain from his face against his will.

His first jumbled thoughts were removed from residence by those concerning His Lordship’s _diet_ , and then swiftly chased onwards by _other_ thoughts regarding his more personal knowledge of the Patrician, and their Interactions... he swallowed a few times and stared intently at his knees, excruciatingly aware of the fact that Vetinari did not need vampire senses to recognise his emotions.

Vetinari blessedly continued, giving him the moment’s grace required to gather his thoughts and contribute to the conversation, if that was what was required of him. “Naturally, given my long-term acquaintance with Lady Margolotta, it seemed only sensible to cement-”

Drumknott’s head snapped up, jealously writ plain upon his face if Vetinari’s answering expression was anything to go by. He licked his lips awkwardly and attempted to quell the emotion, but visions of her near _his Havelock’s neck_ kept swimming to the fore of his mind. Through the fog clouding his more rational thoughts, he managed to choke out, “Please forgive me, my lord, I was merely surprised. By all means continue.”

Vetinari smiled, a fond smile, if only Drumknott had been looking somewhere other than his own knees to see it, and continued, “- it seemed only sensible to cement my current role in Ankh-Morpork, it being a hub of commerce and modernity, in order to act as something of a foil to her not-inconsiderable talents honed over the centuries. It would not do for one such being to continue _unchallenged_ in the Discworld, wouldn’t you agree, Rufus?”

Drumknott finally found his tongue. “Of course, sir, such a strategy was inspired... Ankh-Morpork should be truly grateful to benefit from your guiding hand over the long term, if I may say – and given the extent to which the lady concerned has, ah... adopted your methods, I believe this is a decidedly astute decision.”

“Thank you, Rufus.” He really looked like he meant it, too. Drumknott’s heart again demonstrated a pressing desire to become intimately acquainted with the desk in front of him by vacating his ribcage ( _ten years! and the man never stopped affecting him so_ ). But there was something bothering the clerk. He quite fancied his chances in bringing it up, given the relatively personable nature of the conversation thus far.

“My lord...” he waited for acknowledgement before continuing, “I hope I may speak frankly.”

Vetinari smirked, an eyebrow indicating that it rather seemed Drumknott was about to do so, regardless of his opinions on the matter.

“I-” he looked down at his hands, swallowed, and cursed himself for a fool, sighing sharply. Now he appeared unsure, meek _and_ would soon look like the needy supplicant he in fact was. Well, what was good for the goose was good for the gander, he reasoned, and dived in feet first. “I would like to know if it is your intention for me to continue in my current role in a similar term – that is, and I appreciate your position and the fact that a near-immortal secretary, given my predecessor’s inclinations, may appear inadvisable, but in a personal capacity, I merely wondered if you might feel inclined to... well. Allow me to join you. In vampiric terms, that is.” He clamped his mouth shut to prevent further words from spilling out and aggravating the situation. _Fairly all right as far as confessions of undying love went,_ he thought. _Didn’t stammer once. Admittedly a little more verbose than originally intended, but when did I ever expect to live up to Vetinari’s standards of pared down word use?_

Thankfully, the Patrician recognised his discomfiture and deigned to answer rapidly, rather than leave his clerk squirming in the Chair, the corner of his mouth quirking in something that, to someone with Drumknott’s knowledge of the man, wasn’t really a smile. He couldn’t place it though, and this concerned him. There were very few expressions of the Patrician’s, and even fewer of Havelock’s, with which he was unfamiliar. He pushed the discomfort away to be considered later, at leisure, and listened.

“I would not feel inclined so to do, I am afraid, for a variety of reasons – not least the fact that _I_ have considered this for several years, while you have had only minutes. Furthermore, numerous issues regarding employee mortality are likely to arise, and there could well be certain political repercussions due to my involvement.”

He turned back to the neatly piled papers, the interview clearly at an end. But Drumknott was nothing if not persistent; one didn’t get this far in one’s career when the competition consisted of trained Assassins by being a proverbial wet blanket.

“Well, my lord, if you feel you cannot, of course I respect your decision, but I feel obliged to inform you that I will then be taking my own steps to rectify this matter in another quarter.” Drumknott inclined his head, turning to the door, and his desk, where enough paperwork certainly awaited to fill several lifetimes. The stationery he could collect! the binders he could fabricate! And most importantly, he would ensure that no other clerk could come close to committing the transgressions of the late unlamented Lupine Wonse, all those years ago.

He was halfway across the room, when behind him came the soft utterance:

“No. I forbid it.”

Drumknott’s swirling thoughts were replaced by a colourless void in an instant. He paused for the briefest second in his progression towards the exit, swallowing once. “Yes, my lord,” he whispered to the far wall, before continuing, pace unchanged, to the door at the far end of the Oblong Office.

He made it through by sheer strength of will, taking two steps beyond it before his knees buckled, scattering paperwork across the floor like a white carpet. A _white_ carpet - that would be impractical, surely he never signed off on that? He wasn’t sure why he was now on the floor, or how he got there, or even which floor he was on. Was he on a floor, even? There was a sensation of floating, as if in a void. The void wasn’t exactly cold, but he was shivering. Or being shaken, it was hard to tell which. He couldn’t breathe. But he never had before, surely? He had never noticed. So surely that was the norm. It was most unlike him to fail to notice any vital information. His vision swam and his head started throbbing.  The shivering increased tenfold. Where was he? Uberwald in the winter, surely, just look at all this snow...

His teeth started chattering, the sudden noise startling him enough that he at least regained the ability to breathe in one sudden gasp, becoming extremely aware that his face was, in contrast to the rest of him, burning up. He couldn’t stop the shivering though, curling in on himself and gulping for breath. Why was he so _cold_? But he wasn’t cold. Cold was a temperature below 10 degrees AM. He was almost temperate. Why was he on the floor?

He struggled through the sea of crisp white, through the myriad judging words in which he was curled, desperately trying to anchor himself to his good solid oak desk. It swam in and out of existence in front of him, a sad metaphor for his ever-present control drifting away from his grasp. And gods, why was he so _cold_? He was drowning, surely. He gasped for breath, choking on the rush of air, feeling it sting his throat and eyes, feeling it settle deep into his bones and exacerbate the chill. His head was trying to escape from his skull. Or his skull from his head. There was a skull on Vetinari’s cane. He choked, wheezed as the air caught in his throat. He was drowning.

And then – there. A black robe drew near, with the requisite staff. He’d never thought he would be important enough for that. And then darkness fell.

So why was he still frozen, why was he burning up? Wasn’t that supposed to end?

He was moved upwards suddenly (at least he thought it was upwards), his stomach left on the floor (was there a floor? he was sure it was an ocean) below. There was an indecipherable humming noise, a resonance towards which he felt compelled to turn. He reached for the darkness, and the darkness continued humming, a monotonous drone which nonetheless triggered something in his hindbrain which prompted breathing. Not Death then.

... Vetinari.

The stomach he thought he had left behind him rushed back in at top speed before dropping straight back onto the floor. He wished it would make its mind up. The coughing started back up again, accompanied by another sensation.

Being laid on a bed? No, a sofa. He curled in on himself, unconsciously attempting to become one with the fabric while simultaneously coughing up his lungs. Was Vetinari there? He must have been there. Oh gods. He turned unseeing eyes this way and that, feeling shivers again running through him.

The humming started up again, before something heavy and warm was draped over him. He forced his brain not to think of shrouds, and tried to regulate the breathing he had just regained. Focus on nothing. There was nothing on which to focus. Only darkness...

 

 

 

[1] Let us be frank: the man is considered a Snack in certain circles in the city, ranging from the Shades all the way to Scoone Avenue. (And would be beyond embarrassed to be so informed. Vetinari is still waiting for the opportune moment to let that particular tidbit slip.)↩


	2. Chapter 2

_How very near he seems, yet how remote_

_That age before his world went all awry._

 

Four o’clock began at the Teacher’s Guild. Vetinari looked up from the latest reports from the Watch, contemplating a world in which their reinstatement had been blessedly avoidable. They were beyond dire, for a man accustomed to the clear, precise vernacular of Drumknott.

His longtime clerk and partner had been almost constantly on his mind since the change; a fact exacerbated by the incredible sensitivity which vampire ears seemed to have to even the quietest sounds. He could almost hear the man’s thoughts (a rumour which had been circulating for twenty years regarding his mortal self and was now even less likely to cease), and thus was not surprised when he likewise set down his pen to proffer another pile of trade documents to sign.

He took them with a small smile, then set them to one side of his desk, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. Drumknott frowned slightly, doing an incredible impersonation of one of the Ramkin-Vimes dragons seconds before combustion, if only he knew. His attempt to put the man at ease backfired rather dramatically, as Drumknott perched awkwardly on the chair across the desk – his expression, if anything, becoming more perturbed. Of course, he saw enough incredibly delicate encounters begin in such a fashion to make a negative association. Vetinari sighed inwardly; he truly cared about the other man’s reaction to the news, and it was causing him to act illogically.

He began in the usual manner; rather too many words for the occasion, then reached a verbal stumbling block. He would have to simply say it, there was no way to attractively present the words-

“I am now a vampire.”

As far as reactions went, this was about what he had expected. Confusion tempered with incredulity, acceptance followed by curiosity, a certain anticipation, thoughts tending to the... carnal... hm. File _that_ away for later.

He allowed the other man to recover in his own time from the onslaught of emotion, continuing with a broader explanation which should answer most immediate questions. When he mentioned Lady Margolotta’s name, however, affronted and fearful eyes fixed upon him, almost immediately self-consciously averted. He allowed a smile to cross his face, looking down at the angelic gold locks in front of him, which hid so neatly organised a vessel of intelligence, self-assuredness – and apparently insecurity. So all men did indeed have their weaknesses. He would have to remind Drumknott that Ankh-Morporkian rumour was based in even less fact than your average such speculation.

Then it came.

“My Lord... I hope I may speak frankly.”

He had feared such a question as this. Whatever it was, it was certain that he would not have anticipated it. Rufus had acquired an irritating tendency to this over the years. He raised an amused eyebrow in acquiescence; as if he would prevent the man from speaking frankly! What was he, a tyran- ah. Well, not where his chief clerk was concerned anyway.

Rufus was twisting his hands awkwardly. It was unlikely he even noticed. Vetinari took the liberty of tensing mentally, as it seemed the other man was not in a fit state to notice. “I- I would like to know if it is your intention for me to continue in my current role in a similar term – that is, and I appreciate your position and the fact that a near-immortal secretary, given my predecessor’s inclinations, may appear inadvisable, but in a personal capacity, I merely wondered if you might feel inclined to... well. Allow me to join you. In vampiric terms, that is.”

Vetinari’s breath caught in his throat for the fraction of a second before he replied. He would die? For _him_? He would willingly be bound for eternity to some dusty politician, no matter their current relations, when he was still so young? _Why_ would he do this? He was incredibly bright by the standards of the man on the street, Vetinari would accept no less in a clerk or partner – but it seemed a decision so wholly based on momentary impulse, so wholly _unlike_ his sensible, process-minded Rufus, that he was agog. Vetinari was no fool (for one, the dress code required rather more _colour_ than made him comfortable) – he knew that his secretary was termed A Catch in most circles, and sooner or later he would wish to retire, as did all men in such high positions (Vetinari pointedly excluded himself from his mental calculations), and be caught by a pretty young someone like his own self. To make such a decision based on a mere moment’s consideration could only lead to destruction. He was right. He had not anticipated this.

He narrowed the issue down to the crux of the matter.

“I would not feel inclined so to do, I am afraid, for a variety of reasons – not least the fact that I have considered this for several years, while you have had only minutes. Furthermore, numerous issues regarding employee mortality are likely to arise, and there could well be certain political repercussions due to my involvement.” Surely he would see that such a request lacked consideration, would see that he would regret it in the future, would understand that he, Vetinari, would not be the one to condemn him to a life of undeath, and the ostracisation which would inevitably ensue.

He was once again proven wrong. Ye gods, _when_ had Rufus managed to hone this skill so expertly?

The irreverent rejoinder came: “Well my lord, if you feel you cannot, of course I respect your decision, but I feel obliged to inform you that I will be taking my own steps to rectify this matter in another quarter.” Cheeky little bastard. Vetinari hid his mouth behind his hand (futile in any case as Drumknott had turned to make a Dramatic Exit), then realised he would have to continue his increasingly desperate attempts to prevent his secretary from (literally) throwing his life away. There was only one way which would ensure success.

“No. I forbid it.”

He knew as soon as he spoke that he had misjudged, that he had said something incredibly wrong, from the minute tensing of the other man’s shoulders and the tiny pause in his step. From the almost whispered response. From the suddenly ice-cold atmosphere. And Vetinari was _dead_ ; he couldn’t _feel_ the cold. The sound of the door closing cut through him like a knife. What had he done? No, really, _what_ had he done? So well-versed in mind games and politics, personal or emotional issues often remained a closed book to the Patrician – but this was ignorance which he could ill afford.

He would give the man fifteen minutes – all he was doing was compiling the next ream of papers for processing – to give him time to think, and then speak to him. Errors of judgment were rare for Vetinari, but he hoped that this could be painlessly solved... matters of the heart were, in the end, far more complicated than politics.

It was less than ten minutes later that Vetinari, after reading the same page a dozen times and assimilating none of it, exited the Oblong Office to find his chief clerk curled in a sea of spilt paper, clinging desperately to his desk and shivering like a sparrow caught in a snowstorm, while tears streamed down an otherwise immobile face.

He knew now for certain that he had a heart, contrary to the myriad rumours. He distinctly felt it break.

“Rufus...” he exhaled, more in sadness than surprise. Of course he _knew_ , the vetting process for clerks was unsurpassed, but in all their years he had never seen him like this. Never caused it.

There was no response as Vetinari drew closer, crouching down next to him and gently combing stray golden strands back from his face, which was an alarming ashen shade. His training was not equipped for this – he had taken life, and could only give it on the broadest scale. He ignored the icy band tightening around his heart and scooped up his partner in one smooth motion, hoping that once he was somewhere more comfortable (the sofa next door would have to suffice) and most importantly away from the immediate vicinity, he would come to slightly.

Vetinari distinctly remembered discovering during his research into his new chief clerk oh, so many years ago, that speaking to the person in distress was considered of some help. He was of the opinion that this was most useful when the person concerned was several steps _further_ away from total unconsciousness and could process the words, but began speaking about the latest Watch report in minute detail regardless. Rufus hadn’t read it; Vetinari preferred to delegate more worthwhile tasks, and frankly was of the opinion that his exceedingly valuable clerk would have a grammar-induced heart attack half a page into a Watch report, which state of affairs was better avoided.

Only ten seconds into his monologue (he certainly wasn’t counting), the man in his arms took a long shuddering breath and turned his head into Vetinari’s chest, still clearly insensible to the situation. It was frequently said (by those either obtuse or jealous, and ofttimes both), that the Patrician's chilly public demeanour concealed an enduring lack of empathy, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to protect the mortal man in his arms to the best of his not-inconsiderable ability. While he disdained weakness in his political opponents, he could not bring himself to see Drumknott’s condition as a fault – for all men are brought low by the ravages of time and serotonin. In all aspects of his life and work, the man was exemplary. If there were indeed gods, they had a horrible sense of humour.

He laid his insensate but thankfully breathing clerk on the sofa in the room adjoining the Oblong Office, hoping the change of scenery and heavy blanket were enough. He was putting far too much stock in hope, and far too little in knowledge, and he disliked it keenly. Mr Fusspot padded up to him and whined in a questioning manner. Vetinari looked down at the overweight bundle at his side, then picked him up and set him on the sofa next to Drumknott.

“Look after him for me. This is Very Important.” He tried to impress upon the small spoilt animal the vast returns constituent in an occupation, when it had heretofore lived a life of sleep, food and walks (and gentle pats, but that was absolutely classified information).

Mr Fusspot regarded him with serious brown eyes, then turned around on himself a few times and curled up on Drumknott’s ankles.

The single, forlorn chiming of the Teacher’s Guild clock alerted the area to the fact that it was likely around half past four. (As usual, their mechanisms could be relied upon to mark as many extra segments as possible; indeed one day last week the clock had struck no less than 43 times in the space of what could be considered two hours.)

There remained a substantial amount of paperwork to complete before the day closed, and Vetinari did not intend to continue this once his secretary awoke. He would have to trust in the calming canine weight of Mr Fusspot until then. He stood slowly from his place by the side of the sofa, never taking his eyes off the unconscious Drumknott. He sighed.

“I’m sorry, Rufus,” he breathed, before turning slowly to his desk and the paperwork he had abandoned.


	3. Chapter 3

_Discworld is Discworld yet, for all our fears-_

_Only those things the heart believes are true._

 

Rufus Drumknott awoke with a splitting headache, to the calming sound of a scratching pen. The Patrician’s writing, if he wasn’t mistaken. He breathed in slowly, then noticed the heavy weight on his ankles and _then_ on the rest of him, before his brain kicked back in and he remembered what had happened. Or rather, bits of it. Vetinari was a vampire. They had bought new white carpets. He, Drumknott, hated them and had- no, there was something else... He peered down the length of the sofa (and when did he get there? Oh _gods,_ did the Patrician _carry_ him? He would _never_ live that down) and noted that the ankle weight was in fact Mr Fusspot, who was by now gently drooling onto his trouser hem.

He hadn’t realised the pen had silenced.

“Rufus, you are awake,” said the long figure of Vetinari, approaching from the desk.

Drumknott swallowed. That didn’t _sound_ like an admonition, but one could never really tell. Especially when one’s head felt like one of the many cabbages of Sto Lat. He tried valiantly to struggle up without dislodging Mr Fusspot – a harder task than first appeared, the material covering him seemingly contrived to restrict movement. He frowned at it, before Vetinari placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Please don’t get up out of deference, Rufus. You have had something of an ordeal. I-” Vetinari sighed heavily, now kneeling next to the sofa, “I can only apologise for what I have put you through.”

 _What he had-?_ Drumknott’s mind, he decided, was more akin to boiled cabbage than the good, fresh produce of Sto Lat. He sifted through the information it presented to him, before it was thrown up with all the violence and hilarity of a Fools’ Guild ladder. Vetinari would live without him. Literally. He was destined to be only a passing aspect of the Patrician’s unlife. He had been a convenience, and nothing more. This was something which had never caused him fear in the past, and it was the unfamiliarity, as well as the sneaking feeling of betrayal (which he tried desperately to quell; the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork owed him, Drumknott, nothing), causing his blood to run cold. He felt a rock settle in his stomach. _Fifteen years._

He swallowed again. A glass of water appeared beside him questioningly and, his faculties swiftly returning to normal, he raised himself with some effort to something approaching a sitting position and took it, dislodging Mr Fusspot as he did so. The dog curled back up on the sofa and started to snore.

Vetinari, unseen by Drumknott, rolled his eyes at the useless animal and continued his analysis of the other man’s expression. It had shuttered imperceptibly seconds before and he could not figure out why – or how he could rectify it.

“Rufus-” he began, but was cut off by Drumknott before he even finished the second syllable.

“My lord, I hope you will forgive this lapse in mental capacity,” Drumknott rattled off, in full Clerk Mode. “It was absolutely unforgivable and I completely understand if you wish for my resignation forthwith. In the event you find this unnecessary, in which case I am most indebted to you, may I request a week’s leave (which, you may remember, I have in lieu from last Hogswatch) in order to readjust to the situation, after which time I will be gratified to return as your chief clerk, if that is acceptable to you.” His face remained wooden, the lack of emotion almost more frightening than his earlier state.

Vetinari wasn’t sure his put-upon heart could take much more breaking in so short a period. He longed for a return to logic and knowledge. He had noted the lack of any reference to their relationship, and couldn’t bring himself to mention it.

“Rufus,” he tried again, waiting to see if he had any more to say, before continuing, “Please tell me what I have done.” _And then congratulate yourself on being the only man alive or dead to reduce the Patrician to abject begging. Once this was sorted – and it_ would _be sorted – there would be Words._

“Nothing, sir,” came the stiff reply.

Vetinari sighed inwardly. When it came to stubbornness, they were evenly matched. If Drumknott did not wish to talk, he would not. It was a trait which he, Vetinari, had appreciated in the past – before seeing it employed against himself. To be frank, he rather hoped it would not be again. His clerk was far too skilled.

“Very well, then. I shall have to surmise; please correct me if I err in any respect.” Drumknott nodded. “Prior to my forbidding you from yourself becoming a vampire, you seemed perfectly at ease with the new state of affairs. Thus it is this which affected you, and not the concept of vampirism itself. Having had two hours to contemplate this, the only realistic reasoning I can produce is that you yourself wished to become a vampire for your own personal reasons. However, these have not existed long-term, as it is not something in which you have ever before shown an interest. Thus, we can assume that _your_ reasoning for wishing to change was prompted dare I say wholly by my own revelation.”

Mr Fusspot punctuated this with a whine in his sleep. How apt.

There was no reply from Drumknott, the woodenness having left his face over the course of Vetinari’s explanation, to be replaced with a more usual air of attention. He looked down at his hands, feeling slightly incredulous. _He really doesn’t understand. For someone so intelligent, he can’t half be dense._

“You are correct, my Lord,” said Drumknott. “My wishing to change was prompted wholly and completely by your revelation. Now I should like to question you, if we are truly having a Discussion1 regarding this. Why did you forbid me from becoming a- well, becoming like you?” His chin rose almost defiantly as he dared himself to even think about having another breakdown in front of the man.

Vetinari paused again, determined to use the right words this time, and not to shroud his concerns in Politician.2 “Firstly, I believe I mentioned the lack of consideration given to the decision. This is unlike you, and I fear would lead to your future regret. Secondly, and on a related note, to undertake such a decision would render you in effect an eternal secretary, unable to rise to a higher rank or develop materially. Thirdly, I am aware that is it the fate of the young and beautiful to seek out partners like themselves, and I could not be the motivation behind your future unhappiness, when you, in ten years or twenty, wish to pursue such goals.” The other, more selfish and arguably more rational side of Vetinari whispered scornfully, _He’s been with you for fifteen years. I think he’s in this for the long haul, don’t you?_ He ignored it and continued down the path of righteousness, or perhaps idiocy.

Drumknott raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Is that it, my lord?”

Vetinari found himself at a loss for words, but managed mentally to congratulate himself on the fact that he had clearly said _something_ right, in order to elicit his clerk’s natural sarcasm.

“Well in that case, sir, may I respectfully inform you that I am in fact of age and able to make decisions for myself, that to the best of my knowledge I did in fact have a partner such as you describe, and finally that I am practically unable to ascend any higher than the rank to which I have. What more could I possibly desire? I am assistant and lover to the most powerful man on the Disc – to what dizzying heights do you presume I could rise?”

The Patrician was agog. “Rufus, I can onl-”

“For the sake of _any_ god still hanging around listening to this debacle, you idiot man, get up here,” Drumknott huffed, dragging Vetinari by the front of his robes up onto the sofa from where he had remained kneeling on the floor (a feat made easier by the fact the Assassin was both confused and felt unthreatened), and praying to the same tolerant god that Vetinari wouldn’t remember later that he had called him an idiot. Even if it was, strictly speaking, in the circumstances, true.

“Is that _really_ all there was to it? Havelock?” He was still clutching black material, and would likely be in trouble for it later, but he couldn’t bring himself to care overly. Ice-blue eyes met a myriad shades of brown, something almost tangible appearing in the air between them.

“Yes, Rufus.”

There was a pause, then: “I insist you turn me, Havelock. Clearly you need someone to keep you from going off the rails.”

Vetinari could see he was going to get nowhere. After all, they rivalled each other for stubbornness.

“I acquiesce. Cheeky bugger.”

“Is that a promise?” Drumknott smirked, and it was Vetinari’s turn to raise an eyebrow suspiciously. Drumknott fluttered his eyelashes. “The acquiescence, of course. Havelock, _really_.”

The Patrician had by this point had just about enough of the attitude of youth (the fact that his clerk was now well into his thirties and rapidly approaching the other side of forty was neither here nor there), and may or may not have actually growled before pinning the recalcitrant clerk to the winged arm of the chair. “Of course,” he purred, “there is considerable information which must be imparted before you take this step, regarding, oh, future consequences concerning your duties, life changes and schedule rearrangement. It might take hours.”

“Not likely,” said Drumknott, and kissed him.

 

 

[1] One could practically _hear_ the capitalised term. It was a very specific form of Drumknottian inflection. [return to text]

[2] Another dialect almost exclusive to the Patrician, and certainly his own language when it came to fluency.[return to text]


	4. Chapter 4

_Here, though the Disc explode, these two survive,_

_And it is always –_

 

“You are aware, I presume,” murmured Vetinari next to Drumknott’s wrist, maintaining eye contact all the time, “that the blood which must be taken need not be arterial?”

Drumknott, in a seventh realm of ecstasy made only more potent by the latent emotions still curling through him, could only reply, “Ngmm?”

Vetinari smirked, blue eyes glinting. “Lady Margolotta bit my arm, Rufus.”

The words finally got through to the other man, and he turned instantly scarlet, instinctively pulling his arm back and covering his mouth to hide his grimace. “I didn’t- I mean I wasn’t-”

“Rufus,” said Vetinari in the same calm voice, with a teasing sing-song lilt interfaced neatly over the top like a fine glaze, “Stop _worrying_ , Rufus.” He eased the hand he had been holding captive away from Drumknott’s face and kissed it softly. This did absolutely nothing for the other’s composure; there may have been a squeak.[1] It could have been the chair leg, however.

“That said,” Vetinari continued suddenly, with an air foreign to him, of a man covering his tracks, “Please understand that the plea for you to stop worrying was simply that, and I would not dream of ordering you to-”

“Havelock!” Drumknott echoed him, smiling fondly, almost laughing. “I know. I’m not made of china, hm?” He raised one elegant eyebrow teasingly, and Vetinari quirked a half-smile in response.  “But... thank you. I... I’m incredibly grateful.”

There was something there left unsaid; it floated in the air like an especially dense blancmange (which incidentally was exactly what both men felt like).

There was brief silence, then:

“So how is it that you go about this biting thing? If _your_ neck wasn’t involved, can _mine_ be?” Drumknott waggled his eyebrows, and Vetinari huffed in amused frustration.

“I’m tempted to veto that idea after your behaviour, young man; anyone would think you were a purveyor of the Seamstresses’ best to hear you.”

“Now Havelock, that’s uncharitable... you know you’re _far_ better than that.”

“Oh, will you just shut up for two minutes and lie back.”

“ _That’s_ what I like to hear.”

“Oh, for the love of- _don’t_ move.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Drumknott sighed as Vetinari neared his neck.

The mechanics of vampirism are a closely-guarded secret (humans do so enjoy both proverbial witch hunts and the prospect of eternal life, especially the rich and stupid), but it took no less than two minutes and fifty-four seconds before Drumknott bolted upright, eyes wild.

“Oh gods... oh _gods_... Havelock, there’s other _colours_... oh _gods_... I’m- H _avelock_ -”

He flung himself at the man beside him, arms wrapped around his narrow shoulders with all the tenacity of an octopus, and breathed in the new, incredible smells pervading the room. Breathing; there was something he wouldn’t need any more... but it was certainly _fun_. He tried again, nearly passed out with exhilaration, and then stopped breathing for a minute while he absorbed the new appearance of the room he knew so well. Things almost glowed; the plain wooden desks were practically radiant in the light of the setting sun. He thought he might have realised just why it was that vampires avoided the sunlight, aside from the obvious – such bright light would render them effectively blind.

He turned his attention back to the man sat next to him, who was observing his reactions with an expression loitering somewhere between concern, fondness and amusement. Even this face, which he knew so well, was changed – so pale it glowed almost ethereally, eyes burning like a freezing inferno. It was worth changing just for this – just to see his Havelock the way he was truly supposed to be seen, to look on the burning face of an angel every day... in an attempt to quash this newly-found poetic streak, he resorted to something which he knew far better, clasping his unlife partner’s face in both hands and crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss – an act distinctly improved now neither party felt the need to come up for air.

“Well I must say,” said Vetinari dryly, some minutes later, “My reaction to the change was _much_ less exciting. A shame I can’t turn you every day.”

Drumknott’s sluggish response warred between righteous outrage (“I should _hope_ it was less exciting!”) and flirtation (“I’m sure my being turned in other ways can be arranged...”), in the end necessitating further application of lips to lips, and Drumknott bodily dragging the Patrician further into the corner of the sofa in which they were already ensconced in a manner certain to cause disquiet at the more select of Ankh-Morpork’s gentlemen’s establishments.

(And now it is rather time for a handily placed narrative break and a good cup of tea. You know the type. What vampires do in their free time is not a subject for polite conversation, not least because they take rather unkindly to it, and even a Black Ribboner can put the fear of becoming a bloodless husk into a mere mortal.)

Eight o’clock began. The Oblong Office working day should have been over, but there were a few hours left yet for the vampire inhabitants. Four hours’ hiatus, combined with a sudden inhuman augmentation of the pre-existing passion for paperwork, meant that such constructs as “working hours” were all null and void.

“This is a terrible cliché, Havelock,” said Drumknott as they stood together in the window looking out over the city – their city – now shrouded in dusk, “But may I kiss you?” He wouldn’t have asked, only he wasn’t _quite_ sure if this moment was personal or in the public service, given the presence of the great city herself. It was best to be certain.

Vetinari turned to face him with a smirk valiantly fighting against the fond expression in his eyes. “I’m sure I could allow it, Rufus.”

And then, in the tradition of all good cameras everywhere, narrative or otherwise, we zoom slowly out from the embracing pair to encompass the palace, the grounds, the city, the Discworld... on and on into the glittering blackness of the eternal starry ocean, peppered with countless burning and dying stars.

And though stories end and time spins relentlessly out, down in the Patrician’s Palace it would remain forever the Year of the Overdressed Barracuda (or in roundworld terms, _1895_ ).

 

 

1There is something so delightfully _quaint_ about hand-kissing; it can reduce even the most sarcastic and uppity of clerks to jelly. Vetinari had taken great pleasure in discovering this very early on in their relationship, and had similarly enjoyed tormenting his clerk at every possible opportunity. Not that he would admit to such, of course. [return to text]


End file.
